Part 1 / Book 3 — RABELAIS IMITATES DIOGENES (From the Author’s Prologue to Book III.) (continued 2)
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EPITAPH FOR AN OLD UNIVERSITY CARRIER
Here lieth one who did most truly prove That he could never die while he could move; So hung his destiny, never to rot While he might still jog on and keep his trot; Made of sphere-metal, never to decay Until his revolution was at stay. Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime ’Gainst old truth) motion number’d out his time, And, like an engine moved with wheel and weight, His principles being ceased, he ended straight. Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath. Nor were it contradiction to affirm, Too long vacation hastened on his term. Merely to drive away the time, he sicken’d, Fainted, died, nor would with ale be quicken’d. “Nay,” quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch’d, “If I mayn’t carry, sure I’ll ne’er be fetch’d, But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, For one carrier put down to make six bearers.” Ease was his chief disease; and, to judge right, He died for heaviness that his cart went light. His leisure told him that his time was come, And lack of load made his life burdensome, That even to his last breath (there be that say’t), As he were press’d to death, he cried, “More weight!” But had his doings lasted as they were, He had been an immortal carrier. Obedient to the moon, he spent his date In course reciprocal, and had his fate Link’d to the mutual flowing of the seas, Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase. His letters are deliver’d all and gone; Only remains this superscription.
Samuel Butler, a brilliant and satiric wit, wrote Hudibras, the immortal Cavalier burlesque of the views and manners of the English Puritans. In some degree imitated from Don Quixote as to plan, this burlesque is so full of shrewd wit and felicitous drollery as to hold a unique place in literature.
Like all such long works, it is difficult to quote from, but some passages are given, as well as some of Butler’s clever epigrams.
THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS
For his religion it was fit To match his learning and his wit: Twas Presbyterian true blue; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true Church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery, And prove their doctrine orthodox, By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A godly, thorough reformation. Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done; As if religion were intended From nothing else but to be mended; A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract or monkey sick; That with more care keep holy-day The wrong, than others the right way; Compound for sins they are inclin’d to, By damning those they have no mind to; Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipped God for spite; The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for; Free-will they one way disavow, Another, nothing else allow; All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin; Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly; Quarrel with minc’d pies, and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge; Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose.
SAINTSHIP VERSUS CONSCIENCE
“Why didst thou choose that cursed sin, Hypocrisy, to set up in?” “Because it is the thriving’st calling, The only saints’ bell that rings all in; In which all churches are concern’d, And is the easiest to be learn’d.” ***** Quoth he, “I am resolv’d to be Thy scholar in this mystery;” “And therefore first desire to know Some principles on which you go.” “What makes a knave a child of God, And one of us?” “A livelihood.” “What renders beating out of brains, And murder, godliness?” “Great gains.” “What’s tender conscience?” “’Tis a botch That will not bear the gentlest touch; But, breaking out, despatches more Than th’ epidemical’st plague-sore.” “What makes y’ incroach upon our trade, And damn all others?” “To be paid.” “What’s orthodox and true believing Against a conscience?” “A good living.” “What makes rebelling against kings A good old cause?” “Administ’rings.” “What makes all doctrines plain and clear?” “About two hundred pounds a-year.” “And that which was proved true before, Prove false again?” “Two hundred more.” “What makes the breaking of all oaths A holy duty?” “Food and clothes.” “What laws and freedom, persecution?” “Being out of power, and contribution.” “What makes a church a den of thieves?” “A dean and chapter, and white sleeves.” “And what would serve, if those were gone, To make it orthodox?” “Our own.” “What makes morality a crime, The most notorious of the time— Morality, which both the saints And wicked too cry out against?” “’Cause grace and virtue are within Prohibited degrees of kin; And therefore no true saint allows They shall be suffered to espouse.”
DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND
A country that draws fifty foot of water, In which men live as in the hold of Nature, And when the sea does in upon them break, And drowns a province, does but spring a leak; That always ply the pump, and never think They can be safe but at the rate they stink; They live as if they had been run aground, And, when they die, are cast away and drowned; That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and prey Upon the goods all nations’ fleets convey; And when their merchants are blown up and crackt, Whole towns are cast away in storms, and wreckt; That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes, And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes: A land that rides at anchor, and is moored, In which they do not live, but go aboard.
POETS
It is not poetry that makes men poor; For few do write that were not so before; And those that have writ best, had they been rich, Had ne’er been clapp’d with a poetic itch; Had loved their ease too well to take the pains To undergo that drudgery of brains; But, being for all other trades unfit, Only t’ avoid being idle, set up wit.
PUFFING
They that do write in authors’ praises, And freely give their friends their voices, Are not confined to what is true; That’s not to give, but pay a due: For praise, that’s due, does give no more To worth, than what it had before; But to commend, without desert, Requires a mastery of art, That sets a gloss on what’s amiss, And writes what should be, not what is.
Samuel Pepys, whose literary work is in Diary form, is no doubt one of the world’s greatest egoists. But the spontaneity and naturalness of the account of his daily doings, as told by himself, have a charm all their own and a unique and inimitable humor.
EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY
Rose early, and put six spoons and a porringer of silver in my pocket to give away to-day. To dinner at Sir William Batten’s; and then, after a walk in the fine gardens, we went to Mrs. Browne’s, where Sir W. Pen and I were godfathers, and Mrs. Jordan and Shipman godmothers to her boy. And there, before and after the christening, we were with the woman above in her chamber; but whether we carried ourselves well or ill, I know not; but I was directed by young Mrs. Batten. One passage of a lady that ate wafers with her dog did a little displease me. I did give the midwife 10s. and the nurse 5s. and the maid of the house 2s. But for as much I expected to give the name to the child, but did not (it being called John), I forbore then to give my plate.
December 26th, 1662.—Up, my wife to the making of Christmas pies all day, doeing now pretty well again, and I abroad to several places about some businesses, among others bought a bake-pan in Newgate Market, and sent it home, it cost me 16s. So to Dr Williams, but he is out of town, then to the Wardrobe. Hither come Mr Battersby; and we falling into discourse of a new book of drollery in use, called Hudibras, I would needs go find it out, and met with it at the Temple: cost me 2s. 6d. But when I come to read it, it is so silly an abuse of the Presbyter Knight going to the warrs, that I am ashamed of it; and by and by meeting at Mr Townsend’s at dinner, I sold it to him for 18d. ...
February 6th.— ... Thence to Lincoln’s Inn Fields; and it being too soon to go to dinner, I walked up and down, and looked upon the outside of the new theatre now a-building in Covent Garden, which will be very fine. And so to a bookseller’s in the Strand, and there bought Hudibras again, it being certainly some ill-humour to be so against that which all the world cries up to be the example of wit; for which I am resolved once more to read him, and see whether I can find it or no....
November 28th.— ... And thence abroad to Paul’s Churchyard, and there looked upon the second part of Hudibras, which I buy not, but borrow to read, to see if it be as good as the first, which the world cry so mightily up, though it hath not a good liking in me, though I had tried by twice or three times reading to bring myself to think it witty. Back again and home to my office....
May 11th, 1667.—And so away with my wife, whose being dressed this day in fair hair did make me so mad, that I spoke not one word to her, though I was ready to burst with anger.... After that ... Creed and I into the Park, and walked, a most pleasant evening, and so took coach, and took up my wife, and in my way home discovered my trouble to my wife for her white locks [false hair], swearing by God several times, which I pray God forgive me for, and bending my fist, that I would not endure it. She, poor wretch, was surprized with it, and made me no answer all the way home; but there we parted, and I to the office late, and then home, and without supper to bed, vexed.
12th (Lord’s Day).—Up and to my chamber, to settle some accounts there, and by and by down comes my wife to me in her night-gown, and we begun calmly, that, upon having money to lace her gown for second mourning, she would promise to wear white locks no more in my sight, which I, like a severe fool, thinking not enough, began to except against, and made her fly out to very high terms and cry, and in her heat told me of keeping company with Mrs Knipp, saying, that if I would promise never to see her more—of whom she hath more reason to suspect than I had heretofore of Pembleton—she would never wear white locks more. This vexed me, but I restrained myself from saying anything, but do think never to see this woman—at least, to have her here more; but by and by I did give her money to buy lace, and she promised to wear no more white locks while I lived, and so all very good friends as ever, and I to my business, and she to dress herself.
August 18th (Lord’s Day).—Up, and being ready, walked up and down to Cree Church, to see it how it is: but I find no alteration there, as they say there was, for my Lord Mayor and Aldermen to come to sermon, as they do every Sunday, as they did formerly to Paul’s.... There dined with me Mr Turner and his daughter Betty. Betty is grown a fine young lady as to carriage and discourse. I and my wife are mightily pleased with her. We had a good haunch of venison, powdered and boiled, and a good dinner and merry.... I walked towards Whitehall, but, being wearied, turned into St Dunstan’s Church, where I heard an able sermon of the minister of the place; and stood by a pretty, modest maid, whom I did labour to take by the hand ...; but she would not, but got further and further from me; and, at last, I could perceive her to take pins out of her pocket to prick me if I should touch her again—which seeing, I did forbear, and was glad I did spy her design. And then I fell to gaze upon another pretty maid, in a pew close to me, and she on me; and I did go about to take her by the hand, which she suffered a little, and then withdrew. So the sermon ended, and the church broke up.
John Dryden, famous alike for his verse, prose and drama, shows his wit in biting, stinging satire.
Equally caustic are his epigrams, save one—the immortal lines on Milton.
ON SHADWELL
All human things are subject to decay, And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey. This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young Was called to empire, and had governed long. In prose and verse was owned, without dispute, Through all the realms of Nonsense absolute. This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with business, did at length debate To settle the succession of the state; And pondering which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit, Cried: “’Tis resolved; for Nature pleads that he Should only rule who most resembles me. Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dulness from his tender years; Shadwell alone of all my sons is he Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval, But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray; His rising fogs prevail upon the day. Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, And seems designed for thoughtless majesty— Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade the plain, And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.”
ON THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM
Some of their chiefs were princes of the land: In the first rank of these did Zimri stand, A man so various, that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind’s epitome: Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts, and nothing long, But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon, Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ With something new to wish or to enjoy, Railing, and praising, were his usual themes; And both, to show his judgment, in extremes: So over-violent, or over-civil, That every man with him was god or devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art; Nothing went unrewarded but desert. Beggared by fools, whom still he found too late, He had his jest and they had his estate. He laughed himself from court, then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne’er be chief; For spite of him, the weight of business fell On Absalom and wise Achitophel. Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left.
MILTON COMPARED WITH HOMER AND VIRGIL Under a Picture of Milton in the 4th Edition of Paradise Lost.
Three Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first, in loftiness of thought surpass’d The next, in majesty; in both the last. The force of nature could no further go; To make a third, she join’d the former two.
The original of these fine lines was probably a Latin distich written by Selvaggi at Rome, which has been thus translated:
Greece boasts her Homer, Rome her Virgil’s name, But England’s Milton vies with both in fame.
Cowper’s lines on Milton may be compared with Dryden’s:
Ages elapsed ere Homer’s lamp appear’d, And ages ere the Mantuan Swan was heard To carry Nature lengths unknown before, To give a Milton birth, ask’d ages more. Thus Genius rose and set at order’d times, And shot a day-spring into distant climes, Ennobling every region that he chose; He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose; And, tedious years of gothic darkness pass’d, Emerged all splendour in our isle at last, Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, Then show far off their shining plumes again.
In Bishop Gibson’s edition of Camden’s Britannia, there is a very free translation of some old monkish verses on S. Oswald by Basil Kennet, brother of Bishop White Kennet. The last line, to which there is nothing corresponding in the Latin, seems to have been copied from the last line of Dryden’s epigram:
Cæsar and Hercules applaud thy fame, And Alexander owns thy greater name, Tho’ one himself, one foes, and one the world o’ercame: Great conquests all! but bounteous Heav’n in thee, To make a greater, join’d the former three.
The comedies of William Congreve, brilliantly witty though they are, offer no suitable passages to quote.
Likewise the works of Daniel Defoe, who, beside the story of Robinson Crusoe, wrote satirical humor.
FROM ROBINSON CRUSOE Friday’s Conflict with the Bear
But never was a fight managed so hardily, and in such a surprising manner, as that between Friday and the bear, which gave us all—though at first we were surprised and afraid for him—the greatest diversion imaginable.
My man Friday had delivered our guide, and when we came up to him he was helping him off from his horse, for the man was both hurt and frightened, and indeed the last more than the first, when on a sudden we espied the bear come out of the wood, and a vast, monstrous one it was, the biggest by far that ever I saw. We were all a little surprised when we saw him; but when Friday saw him, it was easy to see joy and courage in the fellow’s countenance. “Oh, oh, oh!” says Friday three times, pointing to him; “oh, master! you give me te leave, me shakee te hand with him; me makee you good laugh.”
I was surprised to see the fellow so pleased. “You fool!” said I, “he will eat you up.” “Eatee me up! eatee me up!” says Friday twice over again; “me eatee him up; me makee you good laugh; you all stay here, me show you good laugh.” So down he sits, and gets his boots off in a moment, and puts on a pair of pumps (as we call the flat shoes they wear, and which he had in his pocket), gives my other servant his horse, and with his gun away he flew, swift like the wind.
The bear was walking softly on, and offered to meddle with nobody, till Friday, coming pretty near, calls to him as if the bear could understand him, “Hark ye, hark ye,” says Friday, “me speakee with you.” We followed at a distance, for now, being come down to the Gascony side of the mountains, we were entered a vast, great forest, where the country was plain and pretty open, though it had many trees in it scattered here and there. Friday, who had, as we say, the heels of the bear, came up with him quickly, and took up a great stone and threw it at him, and hit him just on the head, but did him no more harm than if he had thrown it against a wall; but it answered Friday’s end, for the rogue was so void of fear that he did it purely to make the bear follow him and show us some laugh, as he called it. As soon as the bear felt the stone, and saw him, he turns about and comes after him, taking very long strides, and shuffling on at a strange rate, so as would have put a horse to a middling gallop. Away runs Friday, and takes his course as if he ran toward us for help; so we all resolved to fire at once upon the bear, and deliver my man; though I was angry at him heartily for bringing the bear back upon us, when he was going about his own business another way; and especially I was angry that he had turned the bear upon us and then run away; and I called out, “You dog!” said I, “is this your making us laugh? Come away, and take your horse, that we may shoot the creature.” He heard me, and cried out, “No shoot! no shoot! stand still, you get much laugh.” And as the nimble creature ran two feet for the beast’s one, he turned on a sudden on one side of us, and seeing a great oak-tree fit for his purpose, he beckoned us to follow; and doubling his pace, he got nimbly up the tree, laying his gun down upon the ground, at about five or six yards from the bottom of the tree.
The bear soon came to the tree, and we followed at a distance. The first thing he did, he stopped at the gun, smelled at it, but let it lie, and up he scrambles into the tree, climbing like a cat, though so monstrous heavy. I was amazed at the folly, as I thought it, of my man, and could not for my life see anything to laugh at yet, till, seeing the bear get up the tree, we all rode near to him.
When we came to the tree, there was Friday got out to the small end of a large limb of the tree, and the bear got about half-way to him. As soon as the bear got out to that part where the limb of the tree was weaker, “Ha!” says he to us, “now you see me teachee the bear dance”; so he began jumping and shaking the bough, at which the bear began to totter, but stood still, and began to look behind him, to see how he should get back; then, indeed, we did laugh heartily. But Friday had not done with him by a great deal. When seeing him stand still, he called out to him again, as if he had supposed the bear could speak English, “What, you no come farther? Pray you come farther.” So he left jumping and shaking the bough; and the bear, just as if he had understood what he had said, did come a little farther. Then he began jumping again, and the bear stopped again. We thought now was a good time to knock him on the head, and called to Friday to stand still, and we would shoot the bear; but he cried out earnestly, “Oh, pray! oh, pray! no shoot! me shoot by-and-then.” He would have said by-and-by.
However, to shorten the story, Friday danced so much, and the bear stood so ticklish, that we had laughing enough indeed, but still could not imagine what the fellow would do; for first we thought he depended upon shaking the bear off; and we found the bear was too cunning for that too; for he would not go out far enough to be thrown down, but clung fast with his great broad claws and feet, so that we could not imagine what would be the end of it, and what the jest would be at last. But Friday put us out of doubt quickly; for, seeing the bear cling fast to the bough, and that he would not be persuaded to come any farther, “Well, well,” says Friday, “you no come farther, me go; you no come to me, me come to you.” And upon this he went out to the smaller end of the bough, where it would bend with his weight, and gently let himself down by it, sliding down the bough till he came near enough to jump down on his feet, and away he ran to his gun, took it up, and stood still. “Well,” said I to him, “Friday, what will you do now? Why don’t you shoot him?” “No shoot,” says Friday, “no yet; me shoot now, me no kill; me stay, give you one more laugh.” And, indeed, so he did, as you will see presently. For when the bear saw his enemy gone, he came back from the bough where he stood, but did it very cautiously, looking behind him every step, and coming backward till he got into the body of the tree. Then, with the same hinder end foremost, he came down the tree, grasping it with his claws, and moving one foot at a time, very leisurely. At this juncture, and just before he could set his hind feet upon the ground, Friday stepped up close to him, clapped the muzzle of his piece into his ear, and shot him dead as a stone. Then the rogue turned about to see if we did not laugh; and when he saw we were pleased by our looks, he began to laugh very loud. “So we kill bear in my country,” says Friday. “So you kill them?” says I; “why, you have no guns.” “No,” says he, “no gun, but shoot great much long arrow.”
Matthew Prior was called by Thackeray the most charmingly humorous of the English poets, and Cowper speaks of Prior’s charming ease.
AN EPITAPH
Interred beneath this marble stone Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run. If human things went ill or well, If changing empires rose or fell, The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple just the same. They walked and ate, good folks. What then? Why, then they walked and ate again; They soundly slept the night away; They did just nothing all the day, Nor sister either had, nor brother; They seemed just tallied for each other. Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree; Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespassed on the other’s ground. Nor fame nor censure they regarded; They neither punished nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman did; Her maids she neither praised nor chid; So every servant took his course, And, bad at first, they all grew worse; Slothful disorder filled his stable. And sluttish plenty decked her table. Their beer was strong, their wine was port; Their meal was large, their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. They paid the church and parish rate, And took, but read not, the receipt: For which they claimed their Sunday’s due Of slumbering in an upper pew. No man’s defects sought they to know, So never made themselves a foe. No man’s good deeds did they commend, So never raised themselves a friend. Nor cherished they relations poor, That might decrease their present store; Nor barn nor house did they repair, That might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded. Nor tear nor smile did they employ At news of grief or public joy When bells were rung and bonfires made, If asked, they ne’er denied their aid; Their jug was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died or married Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was deposed or crowned. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; They would not learn, nor could advise; Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led—a kind of—as it were; Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried. And so they lived, and so they died.
A SIMILE
Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tin-man’s shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never see (’Tis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage? The cage, as either side turned up, Striking a ring of bells a-top?— Mov’d in the orb, pleas’d with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus’ shades. In noble songs, and lofty odes, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleased with their own verses’ sound; Brought back, how fast soe’er they go, Always aspiring, always low.
PHILLIS’ AGE
How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task: For she has really two ages. Stiff in brocade, and pinch’d in stays, Her patches, paint and jewels on; All day let envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one. Paint, patches, jewels laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied; And Phillis is some forty-three.
Prior delighted in epigrams on ladies who wore false hair and teeth, and who attempted to retain the beauty of youth by means of paint and dye. They are generally imitated from Martial.
A REASONABLE AFFLICTION
In a dark corner of the house Poor Helen sits, and sobs, and cries; She will not see her loving spouse, Nor her more dear picquet allies: Unless she find her eye-brows, She’ll e’en weep out her eyes.
FRENCH HUMOR
The first French humorist of note in the seventeenth century was Cyrano de Bergerac. His History of the Moon and History of the Sun are of the nature of Gulliver’s Travels.
THE SOUL OF THE CABBAGE
We laid ourselves along upon very soft quilts, covered with large carpets; and a young man that waited on us, taking the oldest of our philosophers led him into a little parlor apart, where my Spirit called to him to come back to us as soon as he had supped.
This humor of eating separately gave me the curiosity of asking the cause of it. “He’ll not relish,” said he, “the steam of meat, nor yet of herbs, unless they die of themselves, because he thinks they are sensible of pain.” “I wonder not so much,” replied I, “that he abstains from flesh, and all things that have had a sensitive life. For in our world the Pythagoreans, and even some holy Anchorites, have followed that rule; but not to dare, for instance, cut a cabbage, for fear of hurting it—that seems to me altogether ridiculous.” “And for my part,” answered my Spirit, “I find a great deal of reason in his opinion.
“For, tell me is not that cabbage you speak of a being existent in Nature as well as you? Is not she the common mother of you both? Yet the opinion that Nature is kinder to mankind than to cabbage-kind, tickles and makes us laugh. But, seeing she is incapable of passion, she can neither love nor hate anything; and were she susceptible of love, she would rather bestow her affection upon this cabbage, which you grant cannot offend her, than upon that man who would destroy her if it lay in his power.
“And, moreover, man cannot be born innocent, being a part of the first offender. But we know very well that the first cabbage did not offend its Creator. If it be said that we are made after the image of the Supreme Being, and the cabbage is not—grant that to be true; yet by polluting our soul, wherein we resembled Him, we have effaced that likeness, seeing nothing is more contrary to God than sin. If, then, our soul be no longer His image, we resemble Him no more in our feet, hands, mouth, forehead, and ears, than a cabbage in its leaves, flowers, stalk, pith, and head—do not you really think that if this poor plant could speak when one cuts it, it would not say, ‘Dear brother man, what have I done to thee that deserves death? I never grow but in gardens, and am never to be found in desert places, where I might live in security; I disdain all other company but thine, and scarcely am I sowed in thy garden when, to show thee my good-will, I blossom, stretch out my arms to thee, offer thee my children in grain; and, as a requital for my civility, thou causest my head to be chopped off.’ Thus would a cabbage discourse if it could speak.
“To massacre a man is not so great sin as to cut and kill a cabbage, because one day the man will rise again, but the cabbage has no other life to hope for. By putting to death a cabbage, you annihilate it; but in killing a man, you make him only change his habitation. Nay, I’ll go farther with you still: since God doth equally cherish all His works, and hath equally, divided the benefits betwixt us and plants, it is but just we should have an equal esteem for them as for ourselves. It is true we were born first, but in the family of God there is no birthright. If, then, the cabbage share not with us in the inheritance of immortality, without doubt that want was made up by some other advantage, that may make amends for the shortness of its being—maybe by an universal intellect, or a perfect knowledge of all things in their causes. And it is for that reason that the wise Mover of all things hath not shaped for it organs like ours, which are proper only for simple reasoning, not only weak, but often fallacious too; but others, more ingeniously framed, stronger, and more numerous, which serve to conduct its speculative exercises. You’ll ask me, perhaps, whenever any cabbage imparted those lofty conceptions to us? But tell me, again, who ever discovered to us certain beings, which we allow to be above us, to whom we bear no analogy nor proportion, and whose existence it is as hard for us to comprehend as the understanding and ways whereby a cabbage expresses itself to its like, though not to us, because our senses are too dull to penetrate so far?
“Moses, the greatest of philosophers, who drew the knowledge of nature from the fountain-head, Nature herself, hinted this truth to us when he spoke of the Tree of Knowledge; and without doubt he intended to intimate to us under that figure that plants, in exclusion of mankind, possess perfect philosophy. Remember, then, oh, thou proudest of animals, that though a cabbage which thou cuttest sayeth not a word, yet it pays in thinking. But the poor vegetable has no fit organs to howl as you do, nor yet to frisk about and weep. Yet it hath those that are proper to complain of the wrong you do it, and to draw a judgment from Heaven upon you for the injustice. But if you still demand of me how I come to know that cabbages and coleworts conceive such pretty thoughts, then will I ask you, how come you to know that they do not; and how that some among them, when they shut up at night, may not compliment one another as you do, saying, ‘Good-night, Master Cole-Curled-Pate! Your most humble servant, good Master Cabbage-Round-Head!’”
Marc-Antoine Gerard, sieur de Saint Amant, was one of the brightest and best of the French early poets.
We give a specimen of his lighter verse. The following is “An Address to Bacchus:”
In idle rhymes we waste our days, With yawning fits for all our praise, While Bacchus, god of mirth and wine, Invites us to a life divine. Apollo, prince of bards and prigs, May scrape his fiddle to the pigs; And for the Muses, old maids all, Why let them twang their lyres, and squall Their hymns and odes on classic themes, Neglected by their sacred streams. As for the true poetic fire, What is it but a mad desire? While Pegasus himself, at best, Only a horse must be confess’d; And he must be an ass indeed, Who would bestride the winged steed. Bacchus, thou who watchest o’er All feasts of ours, whom I adore With each new draught of rosy wine That makes my red face like to thine— By thy ivied coronet, By this glass with rubies set, By thy thyrsus—fear of earth— By thine everlasting mirth, By the honor of the feast, By thy triumphs, greatest, least, By thy blows, not struck, but drunk, With king and bishop, priest and monk, By the jesting, keen and sharp, By the violin and harp, By the bells, which are but flasks, By our sighs which are but masks Of mirth and sacred mystery, By thy panthers fierce to see, By this place so fair and sweet, By the he-goat at thy feet, By Ariadne, buxom lass, By Silenus on his ass, By this sausage, by this stoup, By this rich and thirsty soup, By this pipe from which I wave All the incense thou dost crave, By this ham, well spiced, long hung, By this salt and wood-smoked tongue, Receive us in the happy band Of those who worship glass in hand. And, to prove thyself divine, Leave us never without wine.
Molière (the stage name of Jean Baptiste Poquelin), the greatest comic dramatist of France, wrote thirty or more plays. Though difficult to quote significant passages, two are here given:
FROM “THE LEARNED WOMEN”
Trissotin. Your verses have beauties unequaled by any others.
Vadius. Venus and the graces reign in all yours.
Trissotin. You have an easy style, and a fine choice of words.
Vadius. In all your writings one finds ithos and pathos.
Trissotin. We have seen some eclogues of your composition which surpass in sweetness those of Theocritus and Vergil.
Vadius. Your odes have a noble, gallant, and tender manner, which leaves Horace far behind.
Trissotin. Is there anything more lovely than your canzonets?
Vadius. Is there anything equal to the sonnets you write?
Trissotin. Is there anything more charming than your little rondeaus?
Vadius. Anything so full of wit as your madrigals?
Trissotin. If France could appreciate your value——
Vadius. If the age could render justice to a lofty genius——
Trissotin. You would ride in the streets in a gilt coach.
Vadius. We should see the public erect statues to you. Hem—It is a ballad; and I wish you frankly to——
Trissotin. Have you heard a certain little sonnet upon the Princess Urania’s fever?
Vadius. Yes; I heard it read yesterday.
Trissotin. Do you know the author of it?
Vadius. No, I do not; but I know very well that, to tell him the truth, his sonnet is good for nothing.
Trissotin. Yet a great many people think it admirable.
Vadius. It does not prevent it from being wretched; and if you had read it you would think like me.
Trissotin. I know that I should differ from you altogether, and that few people are able to write such a sonnet.
Vadius. Heaven forbid that I should ever write one so bad!
Trissotin. I maintain that a better one cannot be made, and my reason is that I am the author of it.
Vadius. You?
Trissotin. Myself.
Vadius. I cannot understand how the thing could have happened.
Trissotin. It is unfortunate that I had not the power of pleasing you.
Vadius. My mind must have wandered during the reading, or else the reader spoiled the sonnet; but let us leave that subject, and come to my ballad.
Trissotin. The ballad is, to my mind, an insipid thing; it is no longer the fashion, and savors of ancient times.
Vadius. Yet a ballad has charms for many people.
Trissotin. It does not prevent me from thinking it unpleasant.
Vadius. That does not make it worse.
Trissotin. It has wonderful attractions for pedants.
Vadius. Yet we see that it does not please you.
Trissotin. You stupidly impose your qualities on others.
Vadius. You very impertinently cast yours upon me.
Trissotin. Go, you little dunce, you pitiful quill-driver!
Vadius. Go, you penny-a-liner, you disgrace to the profession!
Trissotin. Go, you book-manufacturer, you impudent plagiarist!
Vadius. Go, you pedantic snob!
Philosopher. Ah! gentlemen, what are you about?
Trissotin (to Vadius). Go, go, and make restitution to the Greeks and Romans for all your shameful thefts!
Vadius. Go, and do penance on Parnassus for having murdered Horace in your verses!
Trissotin. Remember your book, and the little stir it made.
Vadius. And you, remember your bookseller, reduced to the workhouse.
Trissotin. My fame is established; in vain would you endeavor to shake it.
Vadius. Yes, yes; I’ll send you to the author of the Satires.
Trissotin. I, too, will send you to him.
Vadius. I have the satisfaction of having been honorably treated by him; he gives me a passing thrust, and includes me among several authors well known at court. But you he never leaves in peace; in all his verses he attacks you.
Trissotin. By that we see the honorable rank I hold. He leaves you in the crowd, and esteems one blow enough to crush you. He has never done you the honor of repeating his attacks, whereas he assails me separately, as a noble adversary against whom all his efforts are necessary. His blows, repeated against me on all occasions, show that he never thinks himself victorious.
Vadius. My pen will teach you what soft of man I am!
Trissotin. And mine will make you know your master!
Vadius. I defy you in verse, prose, Greek, and Latin!
Trissotin. Very well, we shall meet again at the bookseller’s!
FROM “THE GENTLEMAN CIT”
Professor of Philosophy. I will thoroughly explain all these curiosities to you.
M. Jourdain. Pray do. And now I want to entrust you with a great secret. I am in love with a lady of quality, and I should be glad if you would help me to write something to her in a short letter which I mean to drop at her feet.
Professor of Philosophy. Very well.
M. Jourdain. That will be gallant, will it not?
Professor of Philosophy. Undoubtedly. Is it verse you wish to write to her?
M. Jourdain. Oh, no, not verse.
Professor of Philosophy. You only wish for prose?
M. Jourdain. No, I wish neither verse nor prose.
Professor of Philosophy. It must be one or the other.
M. Jourdain. Why?
Professor of Philosophy. Because, sir, there is nothing by which we can express ourselves except prose or verse.
M. Jourdain. There is nothing but prose or verse?
Professor of Philosophy. No, sir. Whatever is not prose is verse, and whatever is not verse is prose.
M. Jourdain. And when we speak, what is that, then?
Professor of Philosophy. Prose.
M. Jourdain. What! when I say, “Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my night-cap,” is that prose?
Professor of Philosophy. Yes, sir.
M. Jourdain. Upon my word, I have been talking prose these forty years without being aware of it! I am under the greatest obligation to you for informing me. Well, then, I wish to write to her in a letter, Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love! but I would have this worded in a genteel manner, and turned prettily.
Professor of Philosophy. Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart to ashes; that you suffer day and night for her tortures——
M. Jourdain. No, no, no; I don’t want any of that. I simply wish to say what I tell you: Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love.
Professor of Philosophy. Still, you might amplify the thing a little?
M. Jourdain. No, I tell you, I will have nothing but those very words in the letter; but they must be put in a fashionable way, and arranged as they should be. Pray explain a little, so that I may see the different ways in which they can be put.
Professor of Philosophy. They may be put, first of all, as you have said, Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love; or else, Of love die make me, fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes; or, Your beautiful eyes of love make me, fair marchioness, die; or, Die of love your beautiful eyes, fair marchioness, make me; or else, Me make your beautiful eyes die, fair marchioness, of love.
M. Jourdain. But of all these ways, which is the best?
Professor of Philosophy. The one you said—Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love.
M. Jourdain. Yet I have never studied, and I did all that right off at the first shot. I thank you with all my heart, and I beg you to come early again to-morrow morning.
Professor of Philosophy.—I shall not fail you.
Paul Scarron, described as a “pure bird of pleasure,” wrote plays, novels, epigrams, letters, and best known of all, a classic burlesque called Virgile Travesti.
Quotations cannot be made from his longer works, but two poems are given.
FAREWELL TO CHLORIS
Adieu, fair Chloris, adieu: ’Tis time that I speak, After many and many a week, (’Tis not thus that at Paris we woo) You pay me for all with a smile And cheat me the while, Speak now. Let me go. Close your doors, or open them wide, Matters not, so that I am outside; Devil take me, if ever I show Love or pity for you and your pride. To laugh in my face, It is all that she grants me Of pity and grace: Can it mean that she wants me? This for five or six months is my pay. Now hear my command, Shut your doors, keep them tight night and day, With a porter at hand To keep every one in; Well, I know my own mind. The devil himself, if once you begin To go out, couldn’t keep me behind.
The following is better known. It is his description of Paris:
Houses in labyrinthine maze: The streets with mud bespattered all; Palace and prison, churches, quays, Here stately shop, there shabby stall. Passengers black, red, gray, and white, The pursed-up prude, the light coquette; Murder and treason dark as night; With clerks, their hands with inkstains wet; A gold-laced coat without a sou, And trembling at a bailiff’s sight; A braggart shivering with fear; Pages and lackeys, thieves of night; And ’mid the tumult, noise, and stink of it, There’s Paris—Pray, what do you think of it?
François de la Rochefoucauld, famous French moralist, is best known through the wit and wisdom of his Maxims.
A woman is faithful to her first lover a long time—unless she happens to take a second.
He who is pleased with nobody is much more unhappy than he with whom nobody is pleased.
We all have sufficient fortitude to bear the misfortunes of our friends.
Had we no faults of our own, we should notice them with less pleasure in others.
We promise according to our hopes, and perform according to our fears.
Old men are fond of giving good advice to console themselves for their impotence to give bad examples.
We often do good in order that we may do evil with impunity.
If we resist our passions it is more from their weakness than from our strength.
We should have very little pleasure if we did not sometimes flatter ourselves.
It is easier to be wise for others than for ourselves.
Men would not live long in society if they were not dupes to each other.
Virtue would not travel so far if vanity did not keep her company.
Hypocrisy is the homage which vice renders to virtue.
In the adversity of our best friends we often find something which does not displease us.
Gravity is a mystery of the face, invented to conceal the defects of the mind.
Affected simplicity is refined imposture.
We often pardon those who weary us, but never those whom we weary.
Blaise Pascal, celebrated geometrician and writer, left a series of delightful satires upon the Jesuits.
FROM LES PROVINCIALES ON MENTAL RESERVATIONS
“I proceed to the facilities we have invented for the avoidance of sin in the conversation and intrigues of the world. One of the most embarrassing things to provide against is lying, when it is the object to excite confidence in any false representation. In this case, our doctrine of equivocals is of admirable service, by which, says Sanchez, ‘it is lawful to use ambiguous terms to give the impression a different sense from that which you understand yourself.’” “This I am well aware of, father.” “We have,” continued he, “published it so frequently, that in fact every body is acquainted with it; but pray, do you know what is to be done when no equivocal terms can be found?” “No, father.” “Ha, I thought this would be new to you: it is the doctrine of mental reservations. Sanchez states it in the same place: ‘A person may take an oath that he has not done such a thing, though in fact he has, by saying to himself, it was not done on a certain specified day or before he was born, or by concealing any other similar circumstance which gives another meaning to the statement. This is in numberless instances extremely convenient, and is always justifiable when it is necessary to your welfare, honor, or property.’”
“But, father, is not this adding perjury to lying?” “No; Sanchez and Filiutius show the contrary: ‘It is the intention which stamps the quality of the action’; and the latter furnishes another and surer method of avoiding lying. After saying in an audible voice, I swear that I did not do this, you may add inwardly, to-day; or after affirming aloud, I swear you may repeat in a whisper, I say; and then resuming the former tone—I did not do it. Now this you must admit is telling the truth.” “I own it is,” said I; “but it is telling truth in a whisper, and a lie in an audible voice; besides, I apprehend that very few people have sufficient presence of mind to avail themselves of this deception.” “Our fathers,” answered the Jesuit, “have in the same place given directions for those who do not know how to manage these niceties, so that they may be indemnified against the sin of lying, while plainly declaring they have not done what in reality they have, provided ‘that, in general, they intended to give the same sense to their assertion which a skilful man would have contrived to do.’”
“Now confess,” he asked, “have not you sometimes been embarrassed through an ignorance of this doctrine?” “Certainly.” “And will you not admit, too, that it would often be very convenient to violate your word with a good conscience?” “Surely, one of the most convenient things in the world!” “Then, sir, listen to Escobar; he gives this general rule: ‘Promises are not obligatory when a man has no intention of being bound to fulfil them; and it seldom happens that he has such an intention, unless he confirms it by an oath or bond, so that when he merely says I will do it, it is to be understood if he do not change his mind; for he did not intend by what he promised to deprive himself of his liberty.’ He furnishes some other rules which you may read for yourself, and concludes thus: ‘Everything is taken from Molina and our other authors—omnia ex Molina et aliis’; it is, consequently, indisputable.”
“Father,” exclaimed I, “I never knew before that the direction of the intention could nullify the obligation of a promise.” “Now, then,” said he, “you perceive this very much facilitates the intercourse of mankind.”
Jean de la Fontaine, the universally known French Fabulist, was a prolific writer, but his wit shows at its best in his Fables.
THE COUNCIL HELD BY THE RATS
Old Rodilard, a certain cat, Such havoc of the rats had made, ’Twas difficult to find a rat With nature’s debt unpaid. The few that did remain, To leave their holes afraid. From usual food abstain, Not eating half their fill. And wonder no one will, That one, who made on rats his revel, With rats passed not for cat, but devil. Now, on a day, this dread rat-eater, Who had a wife, went out to meet her; And while he held his caterwauling, The unkilled rats, their chapter calling, Discussed the point, in grave debate, How they might shun impending fate. Their dean, a prudent rat, Thought best, and better soon than late, To bell the fatal cat; That, when he took his hunting-round, The rats, well cautioned by the sound, Might hide in safety under ground; Indeed, he knew no other means. And all the rest At once confessed Their minds were with the dean’s. No better plan, they all believed, Could possibly have been conceived; No doubt, the thing would work right well, If any one would hang the bell. But, one by one, said every rat, “I’m not so big a fool as that.” The plan knocked up in this respect, The council closed without effect. And many a council I have seen, Or reverend chapter with its dean, That, thus resolving wisely, Fell through like this precisely. To argue or refute, Wise counsellors abound; The man to execute Is harder to be found.
THE COCK AND THE FOX
Upon a tree there mounted guard A veteran cock, adroit and cunning; When to the roots a fox up running Spoke thus, in tones of kind regard: “Our quarrel, brother, is at an end; Henceforth I hope to live your friend; For peace now reigns Throughout the animal domains. I bear the news. Come down, I pray, And give me the embrace fraternal: And please, my brother, don’t delay: So much the tidings do concern all, That I must spread them far to-day. Now you and yours can take your walks Without a fear or thought of hawks; And should you clash with them or others, In us you’ll find the best of brothers— For which you may, this joyful night, Your merry bonfires light. But, first, let’s seal the bliss With one fraternal kiss.” “Good friend,” the cock replied, “upon my word, A better thing I never heard; And doubly I rejoice To hear it from your voice: And, really, there must be something in it, For yonder come two greyhounds, which I flatter Myself, are couriers on this very matter; They come so fast, they’ll be here in a minute, I’ll down, and all of us will seal the blessing With general kissing and caressing.” “Adieu,” said the fox; “my errand’s pressing, I’ll hurry on my way, And we’ll rejoice some other day.” So off the fellow scampered, quick and light, To gain the fox-holes of the neighboring height— Less happy in his stratagem than flight. The cock laughed sweetly in his sleeve— ’Tis doubly sweet deceiver to deceive.
THE CROW AND THE FOX
A master crow, perched on a tree one day Was holding in his beak a cheese— A master fox, by the odor drawn that way, Spake unto him in words like these: “O, good morning, my Lord Crow! How well you look, how handsome you do grow! ’Pon my honor, if your note Bears a resemblance to your coat, You are the phœnix of the dwellers in these woods.” At these words does the crow exceedingly rejoice; And, to display his beauteous voice, He opens a wide beak, lets fall his stolen goods. The fox seized on’t, and said, “My good Monsieur, Learn that every flatterer Lives at the expense of him who hears him out. This lesson is well worth a cheese, no doubt.” The crow, ashamed, and much in pain, Swore, but a little late, they’d not catch him so again.
Nicolas Boileau-Despreaux, commonly called Boileau, was a famous critic and poet. His Art Poétique had a decided influence on later French verse.
His wit was keen and his satire sharp.
TO PERRAULT
How comes it, Perrault, I would gladly know, That authors of two thousand years ago, Whom in their native dress all times revere, In your translations should so flat appear? ’Tis you divest them of their own sublime, By your vile crudities and odious rime. They’re thine when suffering thy wretched phrase, And then no wonder if they meet no praise.
ON COTIN
Of all the pens which my poor rimes molest, Cotin’s is sharpest, and succeeds the best. Others outrageous scold and rail downright, With hearty rancor, and true Christian spite. But he, a readier method does design, Writes scoundrel verses, and then says they’re mine.
Alan René Le Sage, novelist and dramatist, is best known for his celebrated work, Gil Blas. He also wrote many farce-operettas, which offer no opportunity for quotation.
Jean de la Bruyère, is best known for his work called The Characters, an imitation of Theophrastus.
IPHIS
Iphis at church sees a new-fashioned shoe; he looks upon his own and blushes, and can no longer believe himself dressed. He came to prayers only to show himself, and now he hides himself. The foot keeps him in his room the rest of the day. He has a soft hand, with which he gives you a gentle pat. He is sure to laugh often to show his white teeth. He strains his mouth to a perpetual smile. He looks upon his legs, he views himself in the glass, and nobody can have so good an opinion of another as he has of himself. He has acquired a delicate and clear voice, and has a happy manner in talking. He has a turn of the head, a sweetness in his glance that he never fails to make use of. His gait is slow, and the prettiest he is able to contrive. He sometimes employs a little rouge, but seldom; he will not make a habit of it. It is true that he wears breeches and a hat, has neither earrings nor necklace, therefore I have not put him in the chapter on woman.
THOUGHTS
The pleasure of criticizing robs us of the pleasure of unconscious delight.
The most accomplished work of the age would fail under the hands of censors and critics, if the author would listen to all their objections, and allow each one to throw out the passage that had pleased him least.
This good we get from the perfidiousness of woman, that it cures us of jealousy.
There are but two ways of rising in the world—by your own industry, or by the weakness of others.
If life is miserable, it is painful to live; if happy, it is terrible to die; both come to the same thing.
There is nothing men are so anxious to preserve, or so careless about, as life.
We are afraid of old age, and afraid not to attain it.
If some men died, and others did not, death would indeed be a terrible affliction.
There are but three events that happen to men—birth, life, and death. They know nothing of their birth, suffer when they die, and forget to live.
Gilles Ménage, a French philologist, is now best known as the Author of Ménagiana, one of the most excellent and original of the celebrated Ana of France. The following poem bears a remarkable resemblance to Goldsmith’s Madame Blaize, and it is quite possible that the latter may have been suggested by it.
La Gallisse now I wish to touch; Droll air! if I can strike it, I’m sure the song will please you much; That is, if you should like it. La Gallisse was indeed, I grant, Not used to any dainty When he was born—but could not want, As long as he had plenty. Instructed with the greatest care, He always was well bred, And never used a hat to wear, But when ’twas on his head. His temper was exceeding good, Just of his father’s fashion; And never quarrels broil’d his blood, Except when in a passion. His mind was on devotion bent; He kept with care each high day, And Holy Thursday always spent, The day before Good Friday. He liked good claret very well, I just presume to think it; For ere its flavour he could tell, He thought it best to drink it. Than doctors more he loved the cook, Though food would make him gross; And never any physic took, But when he took a dose. O happy, happy is the swain The ladies so adore; For many followed in his train, Whene’er he walk’d before. Bright as the sun his flowing hair In golden ringlets shone; And no one could with him compare, If he had been alone. His talents I can not rehearse, But every one allows, That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse, No one could call it prose. He argued with precision nice, The learnèd all declare; And it was his decision wise, No horse could be a mare. His powerful logic would surprise, Amuse, and much delight: He proved that dimness of the eyes Was hurtful to the sight. They liked him much—so it appears Most plainly—who preferr’d him; And those did never want their ears, Who any time had heard him. He was not always right, ’tis true, And then he must be wrong; But none had found it out, he knew, If he had held his tongue. Whene’er a tender tear he shed, ’Twas certain that he wept; And he would lay awake in bed, Unless, indeed, he slept. In tilting everybody knew His very high renown; Yet no opponents he o’erthrew, But those that he knock’d down. At last they smote him in the head— What hero e’er fought all? And when they saw that he was dead, They knew the wound was mortal. And when at last he lost his breath, It closed his every strife; For that sad day that seal’d his death, Deprived him of his life.
Italy and Spain offer us little of seventeenth century humor. Their comedies are long and verbose, and rather dull. Also, there are few satisfactory translations.
The Italian, Francesca Redi, gives us a rollicking song of a Bacchanalian order.
DIATRIBE AGAINST WATER
He who drinks water, I wish to observe, Gets nothing from me; He may eat it and starve. Whether it’s well, or whether it’s fountain, Or whether it comes foaming white from the mountain, I cannot admire it, Nor ever desire it. ’Tis a fool, and a madman, an impudent wretch, Who now will live in a nasty ditch, And then grows proud, and full of his whims, Comes playing the devil, and cursing his brims, And swells, and tumbles, and bothers his margins, And ruins the flowers, although they be virgins. Wharves and piers, were it not for him, Would last forever, If they’re built clever; But no, it’s all one with him—sink or swim. Let the people yclept Mameluke Praise the Nile without any rebuke; Let the Spaniards praise the Tagus; I cannot like either, even for negus. If any follower of mine Dares so far to forget his wine As to drink a drop of water, Here’s the hand to devote him to slaughter. Let your meager doctorlings Gather herbs and such like things, Fellows who with streams and stills Think to cure all sorts of ills; I’ve no faith in their washery, Nor think it worth a glance of my eye. Yes, I laugh at them, for that matter, To think how they, with their heaps of water, Petrify their skulls profound, And make ’em all so thick and so round, That Viviana, with all his mathematics, Would fail to square the circle of their attics. Away with all water wherever I come; I forbid it ye, gentlemen, all and some. Lemonade water, Jessamine water, Our tavern knows none of ’em— Water’s a hum! Jessamine makes a pretty crown, But as a drink ’twill never go down. All your hydromels and flips Come not near these prudent lips. All your sippings and sherbets, And a thousand such pretty sweets, Let your mincing ladies take ’em, And fops whose little fingers ache ’em. Wine, wine is your only drink! Grief never dares to look at the brink. Six times a year to be mad with wine, I hold it no shame, but a very good sign. I, for my part, take my can, Solely to act like a gentleman, And, acting so, I care not, I, For all the hail and snow in the sky. I never go poking, And cowering and cloaking, And wrapping myself from head to foot, As some people do, with their wigs to boot— For example, like dry and shivering Redi, Who looks just like a peruk’d old lady.
From the Spanish poet, José Morell we include two quotations.
ADVICE TO AN INNKEEPER
“‘Mingle the sweet and useful,’ says a sage, Whose name, perchance, is lost in history’s page, But whose advice withal is good and wise. It caught a tavern-keeper’s busy eyes, And he exclaimed, ‘Delightful! That’s for me!’ I see the sense, I read the mystery; This is its meaning, I can well divine: ‘Mix useful water with your luscious wine.’”
TO A POET
“You say your verses are of gold. And how, my friend? I’d fain inquire. But, no—I see the truth you’ve told: They must be purified by fire.”
GERMAN HUMOR
Germany in the seventeenth century wakes up to a dim and dawning humorous sense, but gives little definite expression to it, unless we except Abraham á Sancta Clara, an Augustinian monk and satirical writer of repute.
THE DONKEY’S VOICE
A certain singer was most vain of his voice, thinking it so enchanting it might allure the very dolphins, or if not them, the pike, from out of the deep. But it is an old custom of the Lord to punish the vain ones of the earth, who like nothing better than praise. So the Lord made this man sing false at Holy Mass, and the whole congregation was utterly displeased. Close by the altar there was kneeling an old woman, who wept bitterly during the Mass. The conceited songster, thinking that the old woman had been moved to those tears by the sweetness of his voice, after Mass approached the dame, asking her, in the presence of the congregation, why she had wept so sadly. His mouth watered for the expected praise, when, “Sir,” said the woman, “while you were singing I remembered my donkey; I lost him, poor soul three days ago, and his voice was very natural, like yours. Oh, heavenly Father, if I could only find that good and useful beast!”
—Judas, the Arch-Rogue.
A BURDENSOME WIFE
A man set sail from Venice for Ancona, with his wife, both being minded to offer their devotions at the shrine of Santa Maria di Loreto. But during the voyage there arose such a great storm that all thought the ship in extreme peril of sinking. The owner of the ship therefore gave his command that each traveler should forthwith throw his most burdensome possessions into the sea, so that the vessel might be made lighter. Some rolled casks of wine overboard, and others bales of cloth; the man from Venice, who did not desire to be found tarrying behind the rest, seized his wife, exclaiming, “Forgive me, Ursula mine, but this day you must drink to my health in salt water!” and would throw her into the sea. The frightened wife making a commotion with her screams, others ran up, and scolded the husband, asking him the cause of his action. “The owner of the ship,” said he, “urgently commanded that we all should throw overboard our heaviest burdens. Now, throughout my whole life nothing has ever been so burdensome to me as this woman; hence I was gladly willing to make her over to Father Neptune.”
—Hie! Fie!
ST. ANTHONY’S SERMON TO THE FISHES
Saint Anthony at church Was left in the lurch, So he went to the ditches And preached to the fishes. They wriggled their tails, In the sun glanced their scales. The carps with their spawn, Are all thither drawn; Have opened their jaws, Eager for each clause. No sermon beside Had the carps so edified. Sharp-snouted pikes, Who keep fighting like tikes, Now swam up harmonious To hear Saint Antonius. No sermon beside Had the pikes so edified. And that very odd fish, Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,— The stock-fish, I mean,— At the sermon was seen. No sermon beside Had the cods so edified. Good eels and sturgeon, Which aldermen gorge on, Went out of their way To hear preaching that day. No sermon beside Had the eels so edified. Crabs and turtles also, Who always move low, Make haste from the bottom As if the devil had got ’em. No sermon beside The crabs so edified. Fish great and fish small, Lord, lackeys, and all, Each looked at the preacher Like a reasonable creature, At God’s word, They Anthony heard. The sermon now ended, Each turned and descended; The pikes went on stealing, The eels went on eeling. Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way. The crabs are back-sliders, The stock-fish thick-siders, The carps are sharp-set, All the sermon forget. Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Jonathan Swift, the famous author of Gulliver’s Travels, wrote voluminously. His wit was rather heavy, his satire stinging.
It is unsatisfactory to quote from his longer works, but examples of his lighter vein are offered.
AGAINST ABOLISHING CHRISTIANITY
Another advantage proposed by the abolishing of Christianity is the clear gain of one day in seven, which is now entirely lost, and consequently the kingdom one-seventh less considerable in trade, business, and pleasure; besides the loss to the public of so many stately structures now in the hands of the clergy, which might be converted into play-houses, exchanges, market-houses, common dormitories, and other public edifices.
I hope I shall be forgiven a hard word if I call this a perfect cavil. I readily own there hath been an old custom, time out of mind, for people to assemble in the churches every Sunday, and that shops are still frequently shut, in order, as it is conceived, to preserve the memory of that ancient practice; but how this can prove a hindrance to business or pleasure is hard to imagine. What if the men of pleasure are forced, one day in the week, to game at home instead of the chocolate-house? Are not the taverns and coffee-houses open? Can there be a more convenient season for taking a dose of physic? Is not that the chief day for traders to sum up the accounts of the week, and for lawyers to prepare their briefs? But I would fain know how it can be pretended that the churches are misapplied? Where are more appointments and rendezvouses of gallantry? Where more care to appear in the foremost box, with greater advantage of dress? Where more meetings for business? Where more bargains driven of all sorts? And where so many conveniences or incitements to sleep?...
It may perhaps admit a controversy, whether the banishing all notions of religion whatsoever would be inconvenient for the vulgar. Not that I am in the least of opinion, with those who hold religion to have been the invention of politicians, to keep the lower part of the world in awe by the fear of invisible powers, unless mankind were then very different from what it is now; for I look upon the mass or body of our people here in England to be as Freethinkers—that is to say, as staunch unbelievers—as any of the highest rank. But I conceive some scattered notions about a superior Power to be of singular use for the common people, as furnishing excellent materials to keep children quiet when they grow peevish, and providing topics of amusement in a tedious winter night.
THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN’S MIND
A set of phrases learned by rote; A passion for a scarlet coat; When at a play, to laugh or cry, Yet cannot tell the reason why; Never to hold her tongue a minute, While all she prates has nothing in it; Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, And take his nonsense all for wit. Her learning mounts to read a song, But half the words pronouncing wrong; Has every repartee in store She spoke ten thousand times before; Can ready compliments supply On all occasions, cut and dry; Such hatred to a parson’s gown, The sight would put her in a swoon; For conversation well endued, She calls it witty to be rude; And, placing raillery in railing, Will tell aloud your greatest failing; Nor make a scruple to expose Your bandy leg or crooked nose; Can at her morning tea run o’er The scandal of the day before; Improving hourly in her skill, To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. In choosing lace, a critic nice, Knows to a groat the lowest price; Can in her female clubs dispute What linen best the silk will suit, What colours each complexion match, And where with art to place a patch. If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, Can finely counterfeit a fright; So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, She ravishes all hearts to hear her. Can dexterously her husband tease, By taking fits whene’er she please; By frequent practice learns the trick At proper season to be sick; Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, At once creating love and pity. If Molly happens to be careless, And but neglects to warm her hair-lace, She gets a cold as sure as death, And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; Admires how modest woman can Be so robustious, like a man. In party, furious to her power, A bitter Whig, or Tory sour, Her arguments directly tend Against the side she would defend; Will prove herself a Tory plain, From principles the Whigs maintain, And, to defend the Whiggish cause, Her topics from the Tories draws.
SUNT QUI SERVARI NOLUNT
As Thomas was cudgell’d one day by his wife, He took to the street, and he fled for his life. Tom’s three dearest friends came by in the squabble And sav’d him at once from the shrew and the rabble; Then ventur’d to give him some sober advice— But Tom is a person of honour so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. Three duels he fought, thrice ventur’d his life, Went home—and was cudgell’d again by his wife.
ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS
Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone, To all my friends a burden grown; No more I hear my church’s bell, Than if it rang out for my knell; At thunder now no more I start, Than at the rumbling of a cart; And what’s incredible, alack! No more I hear a woman’s clack.
TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BORMOUNT, UPON PRAISING HER HUSBAND TO DR. SWIFT
You always are making a god of your spouse; But this neither reason nor conscience allows: Perhaps you will say, ’tis in gratitude due, And you adore him, because he adores you. Your argument’s weak, and so you will find; For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.
Alexander Pope, a true poet and humorist, sometimes dropped into sheer nonsense, and often into satirical epigrammatic writing.
For some inexplicable reason, certain commentators have denied any sense of humor to Pope, but the following extracts refute this:
LINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY
Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart, I a slave in thy dominions, Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o’er your flocks, See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon flowery rocks. Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping, Mourned Adonis, darling youth: Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth. Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, tune the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers; Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Armed in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains. Mournful Cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia’s brows, Morpheus, hovering o’er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows. Melancholy, smooth Mæaunder, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander With thy flowery chaplets crowned. Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, So the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.
WORMS To the Ingenious Mr. Moore, inventor of the celebrated worm powder.
How much, egregious Moore? are we, Deceived by shows and forms? Whate’er we think, whate’er we see, All human race are worms. Man is a very worm by birth, Proud reptile, vile and vain, Awhile he crawls upon the earth, Then shrinks to earth again. That woman is a worm, we find, E’er since our grannum’s evil; She first conversed with her own kind, That ancient worm, the Devil. The fops are painted butterflies, That flutter for a day; First from a worm they took their rise, Then in a worm decay. The flatterer an ear-wig grows, Some worms suit all conditions; Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaus, And death-watches, physicians. That statesmen have a worm, is seen By all their winding play; Their conscience is a worm within, That gnaws them night and day. Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ’d, And greater gain would rise If thou couldst make the courtier void That worm that never dies. Thou only canst our fate adjourn Some few short years, no more; E’en Button’s wits to worms shall turn, Who maggots were before.
EPIGRAM ON MRS. TOFTS (A celebrated Opera Singer.)
So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along; But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starved and the poet have died.
Joseph Addison, whose literary work had a decided influence on English letters and manners, contributed much to The Tatler and The Spectator, from which the following extract is taken.
THE WILL OF A VIRTUOSO
I, Nicholas Gimcrack, being in sound health of mind, but in great weakness of body, do, by this my last will and testament, bestow my worldly goods and chattels in manner following:
Imprimis.—To my dear wife,
One box of butterflies,
One drawer of shells,
A female skeleton,
A dried cockatrice.
Item.—To my daughter Elizabeth,
My receipt for preserving dead caterpillars,
As also my preparations of winter Maydew and embryo-pickle.
Item.—To my little daughter Fanny,
Three crocodile’s eggs,
And upon the birth of her first child, if she marries with her mother’s consent,
The nest of a humming-bird.
Item.—To my eldest brother, as an acknowledgment for the lands he has vested in my son Charles, I bequeath
My last year’s collection of grasshoppers.
Item.—To his daughter Susanna, being his only child, I bequeath my
English weeds pasted on royal paper,
With my large folio of Indian cabbage.
Having fully provided for my nephew Isaac, by making over to him some years since,
A horned scarabæus,
The skin of a rattlesnake, and
The mummy of an Egyptian king,
I make no further provision for him in this my will.
My eldest son, John, having spoke disrespectfully of his little sister, whom I keep by me in spirits of wine, and in many other instances behaved himself undutifully toward me, I do disinherit, and wholly cut off from any part of this my personal estate, by giving him a single cockle-shell.
To my second son, Charles, I give and bequeath all my flowers, plants, minerals, mosses, shells, pebbles, fossils, beetles, butterflies, caterpillars, grasshoppers, and vermin, not above specified; as also all my monsters, both wet and dry; making the said Charles whole and sole executor of this my last will and testament: he paying, or causing to be paid, the aforesaid legacies within the space of six months after my decease. And I do hereby revoke all other wills whatsoever by me formerly made.
John Philips, who was a devoted student and admirer of Milton, wrote a poem in which he parodied Milton’s style, and which Addison called the finest burlesque in the English language.
THE SPLENDID SHILLING
“Sing, heavenly Muse. Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme”; A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire.
Happy the man, who, void of acres and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper’s Magpie, or Town Hall repairs; Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfixed his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe or Phyllis, he each circling glass Wisheth her health and joy and equal love. Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black As winter-chimney or well-polished jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent. Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O’er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, High overshadowing rides, with a design To wend his wares at the Arvonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga’s stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern. Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aerial citadel ascends. With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound, What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow Intrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admired by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscribed, Grievous to mortal eyes, (ye gods, avert Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike itself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods With force incredible, and magic charms, First have endued: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body to the touch Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont) To some enchanted castle is conveyed, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o’er a chinky gap, Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies; she secret stands Within her woven cell; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue. The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make; with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils: Then with envenomed jaws the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades This world envelop, and the inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines and crackling blaze of wood, Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. Meanwhile I labor with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave; my parchèd throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy, still awake, Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream, Tipples imaginary pots of ale; In vain;—awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, Nor taste the fruits that the sun’s genial rays Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, Nor medlar fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great! yet greater still remain. My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter’s fury and encroaching frosts, By time subdued, (what will not time subdue!) An horrid chasm disclose with orifice Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds Eurus and Auster and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, Long sails secure, or through the Ægean deep, Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla or Charybdis (dangerous rocks) She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea. In at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray: (Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.
John Arbuthnot, celebrated both as a physician and a man of letters, leaves us this bit of nonsense.
John Arbuthnot A DISSERTATION ON DUMPLINGS
The dumpling is, indeed, an ancient institution and of foreign origin; but, alas! what were those dumplings? Nothing but a few lentils sodden together, moistened and cemented with a little seethed fat, not much unlike our grit or oatmeal pudding; yet were they of such esteem among the ancient Romans, that a statue was erected to Fulvius Agricola, the first inventor of these lentil dumplings. How unlike the gratitude shown by the public to our modern projectors!
The Romans, though our conquerors, found themselves much outdone in dumplings by our forefathers, the Roman dumplings being no more to compare to those made by the Britons than a stone-dumpling is to a marrow-pudding; though, indeed, the British dumpling at that time was little better than what we call a stone-dumpling, nothing else but flour and water. But every generation growing wiser and wiser, the project was improved, and dumpling grew to be pudding. One projector found milk better than water; another introduced butter; some added marrow, others plums; and some found out the use of sugar; so that, to speak truth, we know not where to fix the genealogy or chronology of any of these pudding projectors; to the reproach of our historians, who ate so much pudding, yet have been so ungrateful to the first professors of this most noble science as not to find them a place in history....
The invention of eggs was merely accidental, two or three of which having casually rolled from a shelf into the pudding which a goodwife was making, she found herself under the necessity either of throwing away her pudding or letting the eggs remain. But concluding, from the innocent quality of the eggs, that they would do no hurt, if they did no good, she wisely jumbled them all together, after having carefully picked out the shells. The consequence is easily imagined: the pudding became a pudding of puddings, and the use of eggs from thence took its date. The woman was sent for to Court to make puddings for King John, who then swayed the scepter, and gained such favour that she was the making of the whole family.
I cannot conclude this paragraph without owning I received this important part of the history of pudding from Mr. Lawrence, of Wilson-Green, the greatest antiquary of the present age....
From that time the English became so famous for puddings, that they are called pudding-eaters all over the world to this day.
At her demise, the woman’s son was taken into favour, and made the King’s chief cook; and so great was his fame for puddings, that he was called Jack Pudding all over the kingdom, though, indeed, his real name was John Brand, as by the records of the kitchen you will find. This Jack Pudding became yet a greater favourite than his mother, insomuch that he had the King’s ear as well as his mouth at command, for the King, you must know, was a mighty lover of pudding. It is needless to enumerate the many sorts of pudding he made. He made every pudding except quaking pudding, which was solely invented by our friends of the Bull and Mouth.
Lord Chesterfield, best known for his Letters to his Son, showed clever wit in his ideas and Phraseology.
Men who converse only with women are frivolous, effeminate puppies, and those who never converse with them are bears.
The desire of being pleased is universal. The desire of pleasing should be so too. Misers are not so much blamed for being misers as envied for being rich.
Dissimulation to a certain degree is as necessary in business as clothes are in the common intercourse of life; and a man would be as imprudent who should exhibit his inside naked, as he would be indecent if he produced his outside so.
Hymen comes whenever he is called, but Love only when he pleases.
An abject flatterer has a worse opinion of others, and, if possible, of himself, than he ought to have.
A woman will be implicitly governed by the man whom she is in love with, but will not be directed by the man whom she esteems the most. The former is the result of passion, which is her character; the latter must be the effect of reasoning, which is by no means of the feminine gender.
The best moral virtues are those of which the vulgar are, perhaps, the best judges.
A fool never has thought, a madman has lost it; and an absent man is for the time without it.
Advice is seldom welcome; and those who want it the most always like it the least.
Of the writers who come next, chronologically, Fielding, Sterne, Garrick, Smollett, Foote, and others of lesser degree, we can quote no extracts, owing to the continuous character of their work.
At this time, humor was broad and wit coarse, yet the plays and novels of the period have lasted and retained their reputation.
Which brings us to Samuel Johnson.
Doctor Johnson’s wit was ponderous, but as his is one of the greatest names in Eighteenth Century literature, we give a bit from The Idler which is not entirely inappropriate to the present day.
ON LYING NEWS-WRITERS
No species of literary men has lately been so much multiplied as the writers of news. Not many years ago the nation was content with one gazette; but now we have not only in the metropolis papers for every morning and every evening, but almost every large town has its weekly historian, who regularly circulates his periodical intelligence, and fills the villages of his district with conjectures on the events of war, and with debates on the true interest of Europe.
To write news in its perfection requires such a combination of qualities, that a man completely fitted for the task is not always to be found. In Sir Henry Wotton’s jocular definition, “An ambassador is said to be a man of virtue sent abroad to tell lies for the advantage of his country; a news-writer is a man without virtue, who writes lies at home for his own profit.” To these compositions is required neither genius nor knowledge, neither industry nor sprightliness; but contempt of shame and indifference to truth are absolutely necessary. He who by a long familiarity with infamy has obtained these qualities, may confidently tell to-day what he intends to contradict to-morrow; he may affirm fearlessly what he knows that he shall be obliged to recant, and may write letters from Amsterdam or Dresden to himself.
In a time of war the nation is always of one mind, eager to hear something good of themselves and ill of the enemy. At this time the task of news-writers is easy; they have nothing to do but to tell that a battle is expected, and afterward that a battle has been fought, in which we and our friends, whether conquering or conquered, did all, and our enemies did nothing.
Scarcely anything awakens attention like a tale of cruelty. The writer of news never fails in the intermission of action to tell how the enemies murdered children and ravished virgins; and, if the scene of action be somewhat distant, scalps half the inhabitants of a province.
Among the calamities of war may be justly numbered the diminution of the love of truth, by the falsehoods which interest dictates and credulity encourages. A peace will equally leave the warrior and relater of wars destitute of employment; and I know not whether more is to be dreaded from the streets filled with soldiers accustomed to plunder, or from garrets filled with scribblers accustomed to lie.
Also, lapsing into sheer nonsense verse, Doctor Johnson has left for our delectation these delightful rhymes.
As with my hat upon my head I walked along the Strand, I there did meet another man With his hat in his hand. The tender infant, meek and mild, Fell down upon the stone; The nurse took up the squealing child, But still the child squealed on. If a man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, ’Tis a proof that he would rather Have a turnip than a father.
Oliver Goldsmith, humorous writer of plays and novels, left many world famous books.
His rhymes are often of the nonsense variety, and, as was common in his day, abounded in puns, or punning ideas.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG
Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran Whene’er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends, But when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits To bite so good a man. The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That show’d the rogues they lied: The man recover’d of the bite, The dog it was that died.